


Paths of Pain

by I Frostmere (Frostmere71)



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 17:15:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12869283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostmere71/pseuds/I%20Frostmere
Summary: WIP, Character and City Dev





	Paths of Pain

It was almost perfect, not a perfection that spoke of beauty, it was not beautiful by any account. Some parts were of course, because such is the way of things. It was a perfection of symmetry. The rich were perfectly balanced by the poor, the pall of coal smoke balanced the carefully manicured gardens. The roads radiated out from the canals of the skyward hub like the spokes of a wheel. It was all geometry and lines, dissolving into chaos as you found your way into the warrens. No gas lamps burned here. Candles offered light from the shuttered windows, oil lamps were pools of light on street corners, moments of respite from the deep oppressive darkness of the streets and alleys. The watched patrolled the streets, not in knots like so many cities, in uniform ranks, six to a line, two lines walking in perfect step, pistols hung from their left hips, almost perfect to the inch, halberds angled over their shoulders, uniform in their angle. Their deep blue cloaks slipping in and out of the darkness, the only glimmer they offered immaculate silver buttons, double breasted and gleaming on sleeves. Their presence forming an eddy in the night, a sense of tranquillity that vanished moments after their passing. 

The Scar cut across the city along the edge of the warrens, hundreds of feet across, a wedge, a chasm, broad at the wall and tapering to a point just short of the hub. No one had bothered to find out how deep it was. It didn't matter, it just added to the sense of symmetry, rather than detract from it. Almost as though the abyss served to add a sense of balance to the sprawling city. Bridges cut across the Scar closest to it's apex. Though dark and silent at this time of night. A cable car lofted above it's depths closest to the wall, bringing those travelers who entered by a less than … favorable gates, to more, comfortable areas of the city. 

He limped slowly through the streets closest to the Scar, cane clacking softly on the cobbles, stirring the coal dust as he went. A long thick bundle was slung across his back. Thick leather coat fastened against the wind. He was bald, in his mid fifties, lines of pain were etched permanently around his eyes. A couple of thugs were struggling to heft a bundle into the Scar, in the space between the patrols. They glanced his way as they heard the clatter of the cane on the cobbles. He kept his eyes fixed ahead. He knew the etiquette in this part of town. Taking a moment to be sure of his manner, the pair finished rolling their bundle off the edge. Pausing only long enough to watch the wrapped body fall into the depths of the Scar before darting back into a side street.

He let loose a deep sigh as they vanished back into the maze of alleys and tight streets. Something about people would never change. His destination was two more lamps ahead. He could see the fitful flickering lights casting pools of luminescence at the crossroads. Another hundred and twenty yards. He could almost hear the rusted signs swinging over head in the errant breeze. But it was more a memory. The murmur of of the city at night made such things impossible. One hundred more yards, a fire, a drink, a place to sit, and another tale to tell. It had been quite a few seasons since he had been to the Queens Respite. Old Hreck should remember him. His face was unremarkable, not one you would remember in passing, but to those he knew, one you could never forget.

There was a sense about the city. You could feel the memories oozing out of the stone. The age, the sense of permanence, a stark contrast to the temporary nature of it's inhabitants. 

He heard a whimper from the darkness of the alley to his left. Something drew his steps, an urchin stared back at him fear evident in his eyes. The child's leg was twisted awkwardly under his malnourished form. 

"Hush child", He said softly but firmly. "You will draw attention we both do not want." He handed the child a silver coin and in that moment of distraction straighten the child's leg out from under him. Tears welled in the dirty orphans eyes, but he bit back a whimper. Only children who lived in hardship could manage such a feat. 

'Take the coin, go to somewhere you can trust and get yourself some food, but before you go, my Lady offers one more gift. Let me take your pain." He reached out one hand and placed his fingertips lightly on the child's head. He chanted softly under his breath. One would think nothing about him had changed, but the perceptive eye would note, the lines around his eyes grew more pronounced. His eyes a little more hollow, the shadows under them a little deeper. The urchin sprang to his feet his eyes filled with wonder.

"Hush child, Don't speak, simply go, eat, and tell no one."

The child simply nodded and scampered into the night.

Another ninety yards. Warmth, rest, respite, relief.

A Fitful rain began to fall, almost reluctantly, as though it felt unwelcome in the city. It was not the clean rain of the countryside. It felt gritty with smog and coal dust and had a slightly acrid smell. It his and sputtered in the poorly tended lamps. Sixty yards. He paused to turn his collar to the rain, then began his slow limping pace. Thirty yards. 

The inn itself had nothing outside to recommend it. It was like so many others, a little more run down, perhaps a little rougher from time to time. The innkeeper had a sense of pride however. He kept clean rooms, lice free beds. That was something that was a luxury in this part of town. Most importantly, he never watered down his drinks. As such the place was popular, and his security was good. And lastly, if felt like home.

He pushed open the door, the noise from the tap room already loud through the closed door. The wood was rough against his hand but swung open smoothly. It was warm inside though the rain had sent kept a few of the less regular customers away, at least half the tables were empty. He limped inside letting the door swing shut behind him. No one really marked the entry of an old man, a few glances was all. Well all for the most part. There was a new rowdy in the room. He marked him as soon as he entered. Making his was around the tables he could see the thug out of the corner of his eye.

"Hey old man, why in such a rush, don't you know who I am?"

The old man stumbled, muttering under his breath, his hand pressed against the thugs stomach as he fell against him, there was a muted flash of necrotic light.

"I'm terribly sorry young man" He said as he straightened.

The Thug, however doubled over in pain, falling to the ground clutching his stomach. 

"You probably should see a cleric if a stomach complaint has you feeling so delicate friend."

He continued to his table cane clacking softly on the wooden floor, he could already hear the thug slowly rising to his feet behind him.

"I'm going to break you old man!" the young bruiser roared.

He turned faster than you would expect. He drew himself up to his full height and stood unsupported by the cane. Using it's tip to push back his coat and show the heavy pistol and scimitar at his hip. The thug paused his eyes going wide for a moment then narrowing as he slowly thought his way through the new development. 

"Lets take a moment young man before this gets serious. I doubt very much the city guards are going to frown too much at a crippled old man he put two holes in you defending himself. Especially not in this part of town. And besides, someone already broke me, so you have a lot of catching up to do." 

The thug looked down at the him and noticed the clockwork bracers that supported the old mans legs, finely crafted of muted brass.

"So, lets consider this outcome. I'll buy you a drink to settle your pained stomach there, and we will both forget this little conversation happened. So.... Do we agree?"

"Um. What?"

"Go back to your seat, sit down and forget about this crippled old man"

The thugs expression looked thoughtful for a moment, obviously weighing up the concept of a free drink against the concept of imminent death. He nodded slowly.

The old man let his coat fall back over his weapons, the taproom conversation beginning again bought the realisation that the room had gone still. 

"I'm glad to see you offer a simple old man a chance to have a place by the fire. Sarrik, a drink for my friend here."

"Right you are Rjarevik, It's good to see you back." 

"You too old friend."

He made his way to the table by the fire, an astute observer would notice the shadows under his eyes had lessened somewhat, the lines were a little less. Standing the staff and his cane by the fire he proceeded to unfasten the buttons on his cloak and winced as he slipped it from his shoulders. Under the cloak his midsection and chest and shoulders were wrapped tightly in leather belts and iron buckles. A row of interlocking muted brass plates ran up the length of his spine, branching out and supporting the base of his neck and skull. They were obviously crafted by the same artisan than made the bracers on his legs, a web of filaments arched across his shoulders. He slipped the baldric over his shoulder and hung the blade over the back of his chair. Finally he placed the heavy double barrelled pistol on the table and sank slowly into the chair with a sigh.


End file.
